Where Credit Is Due
by Ink On Paper
Summary: Because they do have a lot to be thankful for . . . . Tony, Ziva, and turkey . . . . A little Thanksgiving piece.


**A/N: So this is a little belated, but better late than never, right? **

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing but an over-ripened pumpkin and leftover turkey.**

He stifles a yawn as he yanks a t-shirt over his tousled hair, blindly navigating the hallway until the cotton blindfold gives way to the familiar setting of her living room. And it's the sounds emanating from the kitchen, though, that prompt him into ignoring Al Roker and a large Snoopy balloon and instead investigate the source of the clatter.

Nothing could prepare him for the sight he finds.

Ziva is perched precariously on the countertop, scrutinizing the contents of her spice cabinet, nimble fingers rearranging various seasonings as she searches for the single, most elusive one. Her dark hair is tied up in a ponytail, some tresses curling in unruly rebellion while other strands obediently lay straight. Faded denim jeans ride low on her hips as a long sleeved shirt in heather gray sneaks up her back, exposing a generous strip of golden skin, and pale pink socks from Bath and Body Works conceal cold feet.

Something erupts into a boil on the stove, encouraging him to resume his survey of the kitchen. Two pots simmer on the stove, steam rising from one while the other remains lidded. The oven is in use, complete with the occasional snap of heated metal and muted glow of the coils. Three half peeled potatoes wait idly on the cutting board by the sink where several dishes have been submerged in soapy water, their respective duties apparently concluded. An empty pie crusts keeps a can of condensed milk company on the island while a bowl of pecans keep guard next to, of all clichéd things, a mixing bowl. And while he has a pretty concrete idea as to what is going on, he can't help but ask, "Whatcha cookin,' good lookin'?"

Dark eyes glance over a slender shoulder and she offers him a warm smile as she carefully scales down the counter, a tin of something held firmly in her hand. "Good morning, Tony," she greets, tugging at the hem of her top and brushing loose hair from her eyes.

"Good morning to you too," he returns, gaze wandering to the turkey baster abandoned to her left. "What are you doing?"

"Cooking."

Ambiguity thy name is Ziva.

"I can see that," he amends, clarifying, "But what, exactly, are you cooking?"

She looks around her at the various pots and pans and other cooking paraphernalia before meeting his amused stare once more. "Dinner," she supplies innocently and, yeah, he gets that she's playing with him.

"It's ten thirty in the morning, sweetheart."

"I am making a traditional thanksgiving dinner, Tony," she informs him patiently, gesturing absently to organized mess surrounding them, before listing off the menu, "There's a turkey breast in the oven and corn and rolls and potatoes. Steamed vegetables and stuffing . . . ." A dazzling smile breaks across her face and he's suddenly weak in the knees as she adds, "I even have that cranberry thing you are so fond of."

And the only thing he seems capable of saying is the simple utterance of, "Wow."

And she merely beams at him, motioning at the book propped open beside the refrigerator, modestly disclaiming, "I enlisted _some_ help from the pros."

All he can do is grin at her.

"What?" she demands, not unkindly, head cocked to the side, regarding him curiously. Because several seconds have slipped by and he hasn't spoken nor moved.

"You're cooking Thanksgiving dinner," he says.

"So? I wanted to celebrate it this year –I never have before," she explains, leaning up against the sink.

"Not true," he counters, "We all went to Ducky's last year, you celebrated it then."

And she nods, allowing, "Yes . . . . but this year I am an American citizen. And Thanksgiving is an American holiday, yes? It is different now, it –it is my holiday now too."

"I really want to kiss you," he tells her seriously and she nods solemnly, stifling a grin as he approaches her, his hand coming cradle the back of her head, his lips meeting hers.

But their kiss is cut short because the timer dings and she's already positioned next to the stove, opening the oven door, dishcloth wrapped around her hand protectively before he can even inhale. He watches her maneuver the aluminum foil turkey-sarcophagus from the oven's mighty maw with a grace that ballerinas strive to perfect and fights the urge to applaud her lesser-known poultry-handling talents.

"You, Miss David, are a woman of many talents."

She glances over her shoulder once more, smirking as she says, "Oh, you think that's impressive? Wait until you see what I can do with a carving knife."

* * *

She would argue that his rear end had yet to meet his chair before a forkful of food was in route to his mouth. He pauses, however, when he notices she has yet to touch her silverware.

"You okay?"

And she nods, smiling reassuringly, explaining, "Before you, ah, 'dig in,' would you like to say grace?"

Her request catches him off guard, but he's quick to recover, acquiescing with, "I'd love to." And he watches as her eyes slip closed and she bows her head obediently, her now braided hair draping elegantly over her shoulder. He crosses himself quickly, folding his hands together, and, clearing his throat, begins.

"Bless us, O Lord, for these Thy gifts which we are about to receive from Thy bounty . . . . We're very blessed, Lord –I'm very blessed and . . . . Thank You, thank You for our health, for keeping us safe. Thank You for our friends, our family . . . . You know," and at this point, she doesn't know who he's addressing, "a little over a year ago, I almost took someone for granted and, well, imagining this Thanksgiving alone was not so far a reach, but You answered my prayers, Lord, and I –I truly am grateful. So thank You, for faith, hope, and love . . . . In Your Name we pray, amen." The grin he offers her when she looks up again is uncertain and a little self-conscious, but the expression on her face quells his doubts.

"That was beautiful, Tony. Thank you."

"No, thank _you_. Happy first Thanksgiving, American citizen Ziva."

And she laughs, shaking her head, "Eat your dinner."

"Yes, ma'am."

* * *

**Happy Thanksgiving!**


End file.
